


Paid in Blood

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Explicit Eye Trauma, Healing, Injections / Drugging, M/M, Stabbing, Torture, explicit injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: A continuation of BlueDynsania's delicious torture/whumpfic.Cross is finally brought home, though not entirely whole in either body or mind.
Relationships: Bad Sanses - Relationship, Cross (X-Tale)/Nightmare (Dreamtale), Cross/Killer, Killer/Nightmare, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155





	Paid in Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [BlueDysania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueDysania/pseuds/BlueDysania). Log in to view. 



> This is a direct continuation of [BlueDynsania's fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079946/chapters/63433039) (written with permission! ^_^) which I highly recommend reading first for both context and because it's GREAT if you love seeing Cross suffer. This continuation was born because I utterly adored Nia's work, and desperately wanted to see more of that glorious agony.
> 
> So while this is heavier on the recovery/comfort aspects, there are still graphic descriptions of injuries and intense flashbacks to the torture scenes, so please mind the tags and take care of yourself when reading!

The last thing Cross saw before consciousness slipped from him was red.

Not the dull, muddy color that oozed from his captor’s nose when he landed a lucky punch. Not the sanguine glow of the heated knife before it had plunged into his socket, or the hot crimson that had scorched itself across his blinded eye thereafter. Even with his sight distorted from pain and asphyxiation, the bright color of Killer’s soul seared into his vision like the beacon of a lighthouse; a distant signal of safety. That specific hue was one Cross was intimately familiar with, and the unexpected sob that breaks from him isn’t of regret but relief.

They came for him.

Then darkness swallowed him up, heavy and all consuming. For the first time since his capture Cross didn’t try to fight it. He surrendered willingly, satisfied with the knowledge that he hadn’t broken or failed. Despite the constant accusations of his kidnappers and his own private fears, Nightmare never abandoned him, which made all the pain he endured worthwhile. Now he could slip away and leave it behind.

But the pain didn’t let go, and neither did his weak and battered soul.

_ It refused _

He couldn’t tell if it had been seconds, hours or days since the darkness overcame him, but with violent suddenness he was ripped from the comfort of insensible numbness and back to cruel, unwanted consciousness. His first reflexive breath was agony, the thin gasp of ai shredding his already brutalised throat. Blind and senseless, he lashed out in a frenzy of panic with the half-formed thought to claw at the strangling coils of rope around his neck.

“Whoa! You’re still fighting, huh? Yeah, I knew you would be.” 

His flailing limbs seemed to make contact with something -- it was hard to tell. His body was a mess of equal parts incomprehensible pain and the terrifying absence of sensation. His throat, his eye and his wrists were on fire, but he couldn’t feel his hands or anything below the knees. For all he knew, they were gone entirely, torn off or crushed into dust by his torturers. There’s a pressure on his chest like someone was holding him down, and his panic drowned out the pain as he scrabbled desperately to escape.

“Cross, enough.”

The voice cut through his mindless struggle, effective as flicking a switch. Like the color of Killer’s soul, Cross would recognise the timbre of Nightmare’s voice anywhere. He stopped fighting, going limp. Each breath he took was a heaving, wet gasp that fought against the memory of choking.

He couldn’t see. He didn’t think his remaining socket was damaged, but the eye-light refused to rekindle itself. The darkness was no longer a peaceful sanctuary but a terrifying unknown. His head spun dizzily as he started to hyperventilate only for the careful weight of a sinuous tendril to settle across his forehead.

“Calm down,” Nightmare ordered, a command rather than a reassurance. “You’re safe.”

It was too soon for Cross to believe that assessment, but his body nonetheless tried to obey. He lay still, soaking in the cool relief of Nightmare’s tentacle against the dry heat of his bones. The unidentifiable weight across his chest and shoulders eased, retracting cautiously until it was clear Cross wasn’t going to continue fighting.

“Heh. Nice work, boss.”

That was Killer’s voice, Cross realised, having been too disoriented to recognise it the first time. He tilted his head slightly towards the source of the sound, imagining the unassailable confidence of Killer’s smile.

“I don’t need your encouragement, I need you to fix this,” Nightmare said testily. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Killer said with a sigh. “I’ll start with his face. You work on his hands. Just clean off the blood and wrap anything that’s bleeding. If there’s any breaks, I’ll set them once we’re done with the serious stuff.”

Bony hands cupped the sides of Cross’s skull, and even though Killer was careful not to press on any of his bruises or cracks, Cross flinched. He’d come to expect that every touch would inevitably end in pain. A tight knot welled up in his throat, and it took him a few seconds to realise it wasn’t just fear he was choking on. He could taste his own blood along with something sour and scorched sticking painfully for a few seconds before he managed to dislodge it. He barely managed to turn his head to cough up the thick clot of coagulated magic, expelling it in several disgusting chunks along with a waterfall of blood and regurgitated magic. He was barely aware of Killer bracing his cheek, holding him steady.

“That’s right. Better out than in,” Killer soothed him, his voice blessedly devoid of mocking for a change. Cross spasmed helplessly, wheezing and drowning in his own fluids before his airways finally cleared. Killer waited several seconds to see whether his choking fit had truly calmed before finally easing him back down. With surprising consideration he wiped Cross’s chin clean of filth, finishing with a gentle pat. “Now, you’re gonna be good and let me have a look at your eye, huh?” 

Even knowing Killer was trying to help didn’t stop Cross’s body from locking up in dread. His socket was a fount of agony, throbbing inside his skull with a clamour that made it nearly impossible to think, but the pain had finally reached a dulled equilibrium. Killer’s probing would undoubtedly agitate it.

Unnatural calm pressed down on him before the rhythm of his breath could accelerate, and Cross belatedly recognised Nightmare’s influence. Usually he didn’t resort to such blatant manipulation of emotions except when things were especially bad; when Killer’s soul started to deteriorate, or when Dust was on a rampage. Cross usually wasn’t on the receiving end of his Boss’s ability to balance and stabilise feelings. He wasn’t like the others; his LV wasn’t as high, he hadn’t gone through the same traumatising experiences, but right now his unnecessary panic was only making things harder and he was too tired and weak to control himself.

“Let me see…” Cross could tell Killer was leaning closer by the welcome heat of his proximity. Cross hasn’t felt properly warm in days, in part because of the drafty cavern they’d kept him in but also from the combination of blood-loss and shock. Killer’s body temperature always ran hot, a common symptom of monsters with high LOVE. It helped to chase away the frigidity of isolation and neglect, easing the tension in Cross’s bones. 

The tip of Killer’s finger traced around the edge of his eye, pausing to map each defect. Even with his feelings numbed, Cross could feel his bones rattling together, instinctively bracing for the pain, because-

_ The knife circled the rim of his socket, marking its target. Cross’s teeth were clenched so painfully together it felt like they might shatter. His skull was locked into a vise to keep him from moving, the upper and lower edges of his socket secured by hooks. He couldn’t blink or look away from the glittering blade. This close, he could see it hadn’t been well maintained. There were small scratches in the steel and parts of its edge were dulled from use.  _

_ He almost wished its wielder was more professional. A sharper edge would cut cleaner and hurt less. _

_ “Last chance,” they taunted, leaning close, Cross couldn’t escape from the fetid heat of their breath washing over his cheek. “You can stop this at any time.” _

_ Cross couldn’t shake his head in refusal and he didn’t trust himself to make a sound that wouldn’t betray him. He couldn’t afford to fight down his fear. He had to keep it close, hold it tight in his soul and let the slick, queasy terror keep rolling through him. _

**_Find me_ ** _ , he begged silently, dragging in another shaky breath.  _ **_Find me now, please, if you can, Boss-_ **

_ Either his fear wasn’t enough of an offering for Nightmare’s attention, or the other skeleton was keeping away on purpose. Cross tried not to second guess the reasons even as the knife came to hover directly over his eye-light. Beyond it, the face of his torturer grinned with sickening eagerness. _

_ “Nothing to say?” they asked. “That’s fine. To be honest, that eye-light of yours has been pissing me off since we took you. Maybe you’ll be a bit less determined once I get rid of it.” _

_ The knife plunged down into his socket, and despite his every effort Cross couldn’t fully hold back his cry. There wasn’t any flesh or organs for the blade to pierce, but the inside of his skull held a delicate matrix of magic that was violently torn apart by his torturer’s intent.  _

_ The soft orb of his eyelight was cleaved apart, spit beyond all repair, and he could feel the damage travelling further, targeting the thread of determination that wove right through his body and joined with his soul. _

_ They shoved the knife in deeper, and Cross was blinded and deafened by the migraine-inducing force of his own magic fighting to counter the weapon, trying to force it back out. Blood and excess magic gushed outward, pouring from both sockets and his nose, as well as seeping through his gritted teeth and out the corners of his mouth.  _

_ He could feel his magic wrapped tightly around the knife, keeping it trapped. His torturer swore, twisting and yanking on the blade, but couldn’t seem to drive it any deeper. Cross made a wretched sound with every movement, his eye burning and his skull pounding with an inescapable drumbeat of agony. His consciousness wavered, but the brutal pain and his own stubbornness made it impossible to pass out. _

_ “Ooh, what a great expression.” Behind his torturer was one of his other captors, the one they left to watch over him when they weren’t actively interrogating him. This one enjoyed documenting every step of his suffering, taking photos and videos with his phone that apparently were being sent back to Nightmare. Cross could hear the click of their camera taking another shot, capturing his grimace of anguish with the knife still jutting horrifyingly out of his socket. “Move the knife. I wanna see what’s left in his socket.” _

_ The knife made a horrifying sound -- a we and gory squish -- as it was levered back and forth in his socket, but now that his magic had gripped it firmly it was refusing to let go. With an aggravated grunt, his torturer yanked hard with a painful, uneven wrench that finally jerked it free. There was a deafening crack that made Cross wonder if his entire skull had simply split apart, but as the furious pain started to clear from his unharmed eye he could see that the oozing blade of the knife was now a blunted stump. The blade had snapped. _

_ Wildly, incomprehensibly, Cross lets out a maddened burst of laughter. Both his captors stared down at him, their expressions eerie mirrors of perturbed confusion. It only made Cross laugh harder. _

_ “Don’t worry,” he finally managed between breathless pants, baring his bloody teeth in a smirk. “Happens to a lot of guys their first time.” _

_ They scowled at him like he was talking nonsense. Maybe he was, but all Cross could think of was how utterly unimpressed Killer would be at this sub-par knife handling. If they’d taken Killer instead, he wouldn’t break. He’d still be smiling, laughing at their pitiful attempts to coerce him. These idiots haven’t seen a fraction of the horrors the multiverse has to offer; nothing they do can even begin to compare. Cross dragged in a ragged breath, affixing a mockery of Killer’s insufferable grin on his own face as he flicked his remaining eyelight towards the knife. _

_ “I guess you’ve really never stuck it in before, huh?” The pain is so immense he almost feels drunk on it, recklessly unrestrained. It’s dangerously liberating. “You’re really bad at it. Might wanna hone up on those skills. Knife try though.” _

_ Their bewildered shock followed by dawning outrage was absurdly gratifying. Cross was still wheezing with desperate sniggers even as the knife was thrust back towards his face, hovering threateningly close to his bleeding eye. _

_ “You’re really not taking this seriously, huh?” his torturer growled, shaking off the weak placating gesture of their companion. All their focus is on Cross, full of furious resentment. “Guess I’ll have to be more convincing.” _

_ The knife plunged down again, and- _

-not even Nightmare’s suppression of his emotions could keep Cross’s breath from stuttering. The tentacle on Cross’s forehead gave a squirm of disapproval before slithering forward and settling more heavily, like all the times Killer’s cat had chosen to invade his lap and make itself at home on his person.

“Shit,” Killer said after a moment. “I think there’s something still in there.”

The rush of dismay was banked almost before Cross could feel it, but it surprised him that Nightmare bothered to ask, “Can it wait?”

Killer made a thoughtful noise. “Don’t think so. His HP’s still ticking down. Whatever’s in there has enough intent to keep hurting.”

There was another shift of intangible pressure, like his soul was being wrapped firmly in a blanket. Cross felt swaddled and numb enough not to react when Nightmare replied, “Then do it.”

“Sure.” Killer’s equally nonchalant calm was almost reassuring, even though it shouldn’t have been. “I’m gonna give him another shot before I get started.”

_ Shot? _ The meaning of the word didn’t penetrate Cross’s sluggish brain. Killer pulled away, depriving Cross of the warming relief of his nearness. Nightmare’s touch was much cooler by comparison, although the tentacle against his forehead felt good against the fevered heat of his bruises. The rest of Nightmare’s tentacles moved with painstaking care, coiling along Cross’s arm to support his overwrought joints and brace his wrist without touching the brutal chafe marks. Something soft dabbed against his wrist, working to lift the days-old crust of dried marrow and grime.

Despite the care in Nightmare’s touch, Cross’s wrists still burned. His carpels felt gritty from all the blood and dust that had wormed into every crevice. The joint itself felt loose and brittle, likely cracked or shattered with all his pieces being desperately held in place by the magic that strung his bones together.

“Okay, Crossy, I’ve got something you’re gonna love,” Killer said with unnerving cheer. “I don’t suppose you can form your magic for me? I don’t wanna put any more holes in you than you’ve already got.”

Despite the question, Killer didn’t wait for a response. Without preamble, his fingers worked their way past Cross’s teeth to slip deep into his mouth in an crude attempt to rouse his tongue into forming. It was more uncomfortable than painful but Cross flinched at their nearness to his throat, trying not to think of the agonising pull of the rope. He wheezed uneasily and tried to focus on the methodical way Nightmare was stroking his wrist, imagining the diligent attention to the wound as a comforting caress.

Killer curled his fingers into the space where Cross’s tongue should form but nothing sparked. Cross hadn’t eaten in days in yet another of his captors’ passive attempts to wear him down. All his magic was struggling simply to hold him together. There was none to spare for less critical functions, like his eyelights or his taste buds.

“No dice, huh?” With a sigh, Killer withdrew his fingers, allowing Cross to gasp in a deeper breath. “Welp, guess I’ll have to find another way to put it in you. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

If Cross could groan, he would at the innuendo. Even Nightmare scoffed, dryly asking, “Must you?”

Killer snickered as he squeezed along Cross’s illiac crest. It was one of the few places that hadn’t taken much damage, neither sensitive nor fragile enough to be a worthy target of his torture. As Killer ran his finger along the bone Cross felt it catch over an unexpected pockmark. He didn’t recognise what it was until the prick of something sharp aligned beside to it, a slender point of metal ready to bore a second hole into his hip.

“Hey Crossy,” Killer said brightly. “You know, I’ve got this great joke about needles, but-”

There was a faint crunch and a flare of pain, but Cross only twitched in response, successfully distracted by the promise of yet another awful pun.

“-you mind not see the point.”

Nightmare gave a long-suffering sigh, deeply aggrieved. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with any of you.”

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Killer simpered playfully. There was a pinching feeling of cold pressure as he plunged the needle, emptying its contents into Cross’s marrow. Once done, he tugged it free and rubbed over the injection site to help dissipate the lingering sting. “You were all uptight while our favourite guard here was gone.”

“Uptight?” Nightmare echoed tightly, a note of warning in his voice, but Killer was the only one among them who’d ever been courageous (or insane) enough to tease their boss.

“Yeah! I mean you’re usually temperamental, but wow, Boss. I saw that mess you left in the library-”

“That was completely unrelated,” Nightmare growled dangerously. The tentacles around Cross’s arm tightened, radiating their owner’s displeasure. Cross thought that maybe it should hurt, but there was a potent tingle radiating out from the injection site on his hip. As it spread down his limbs he could feel it unlocking all the fraught tension in his magic, leaving it numb and loose; anaesthetised. The pain was trickling away by slow increments. Cross felt his socket burn with what might have been tears of relief if his body were willing to waste the magic for them.

“-and what you did to that guy we caught first. I don’t think there’s enough left of him to fill a bucket.”

“I don’t like others trying to take what’s mine,” Nightmare said curtly, though he sounded more pleased than defensive, like he was recalling a fond memory. “If he’d given us Cross’s location sooner I would have been more lenient.

“He broke in ten minutes.

“Then that was nine minutes of my precious time being wasted,” Nightmare retorted haughtily. “Besides, it was clear that I had to step in when you failed to retrieve him as ordered."

“Heh.” Only long familiarity with the often facetious timbre of Killer’s voice allowed Cross to identify the hint of self-deprecation beneath the nonchalant huff. “Yeah, sorry Crossy. It took me a while to track the bastards down. My bad.”

Cross couldn’t offer a response. Even the slight dip of his agreeable nod might have seemed only like an accidental movement. The feedback from his body felt even more distant now, but in a way that was pleasant and dream-like rather than the earlier disorienting loss of perception. The agony of his wounds felt like they’d been buffered by a languorous haze. It reminded him of the time he was offered a drink from Horror’s secret stash, unprepared for its potency. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but groggily content and lulled by the familiar banter. He was wholly disinclined to do anything but lie still and let the world spin slowly around him.

It took an unreasonable amount of time for him to identify the pressure on his face as the careful hold of Killer’s hands. It was unexpectedly nice; comforting. His eye-lids drooped. With the pain tapering off, he was starting to feel like he could slip back into blissful senselessness for a while only for Nightmare’s voice to cut through the pleasant haze.

“Cross. Stay awake.”

Cross weakly attempted another groggy nod. If his HP was still dropping, it would be dangerous for him to pass out before it stabilized. The buffering benefits of sleep could mask a more serious injury. It’s a reasonable order, but some pitiful part of him resents the demand. Even beneath the cotton haze of anesthesia, his skull was throbbing, and the weak splutter of his soul grew quick and panicky as Killer leaned in, his thumb and forefinger bracing the edges of Cross’s damaged eye.

“Relax,” he murmured, but the moment Cross felt the twinge of something breaching the barrier of his socket his throat closed up. The sour taste of old terror and scorched magic was thick in his mouth. His jaw moved soundlessly, his throat too ravaged for sound, but if he could he’d whimper.  _ Not again, not again, not again _ -

“I’ll be quick,” Killer promised, but it felt like an eternity to Cross. The tool Killer had chosen was long and slender, dual pronged; a set of tweezers. He was very careful not to touch the damaged rim of the socket, but the inside of Cross’s skull was suffused with volatile magic that was achingly sensitive to any intrusion. Some of it had solidified, forming a web-like lattice of scarred tissue and scabs in a desperate defence against further assault.

Cross felt a sharp pinch, followed by a careful tug that hardly hurt at all as Killer tested the hold of his magic on the rusted tip of the knife still trapped in his socket. Then Killer twisted the tweezers and yanked the jagged metal out of Cross’s eye with a brutal tearing sound that ruptured the careful equilibrium inside his skull. The sound Cross made was a terrible one; a voiceless guttural gurgle that couldn’t find enough traction to be a full scream even as it tore from his shredded throat.

The magical lattice inside his skull collapsed with violent suddenness, filling his eyes and mouth with blood. He felt like he was drowning in it, spasming in terror until the firm pressure of tentacles dragged him back to awareness. Nightmare held his body steady as Killer forced Cross’s jaw open and gently clapped the back of his skull to loosen the horrid mess, helping him heave it up in more awful chunks of clotted magical refuse. It dripped down through Cross’s collarbones and ribs, spreading beneath him in a thick, rancid puddle.

“Well that was fun,” he faintly heard Killer say with weak cheer. “Let’s never do that again.”

Cross was trembling, feeling roiling waves of queasy numbness and vertigo. It felt like gravity had let him go, leaving him spinning uncontrollably in a senseless space even though he doubted he was actually moving. It was hard to breathe; his open mouthed gasps hitched rapidly but shallowly, his chest too tight to take in air.

“Cross.”

Nightmare’s commanding tone elicited a soft, broken noise from Cross, but the faint pressure of his superior’s tentacles only gave a reassuring squeeze.

“Shh, sleep now.”

Cross was already halfway there, his body only giving a few faint, reluctant twitches before finally lapsing into blessed unconsciousness.  
  



End file.
